The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Bathing Suit

I've seen Hell and it looks like the bathing suit department at The Bay.

Friday: My daughter (also in the market for a new suit) and I hit the shop floor. This is the first year she and I are the same size and I'm caught up in the spirit of mother-daughter bonding and female solidarity.

The euphoric feeling lasts all of two minutes before I quickly learn the only thing worse than bathing suit shopping is bathing suit shopping with a comely girl on the cusp of adolescence.

As she gamely grabs bikinis, tanks and all things Spandex, I work my way through the racks offering "Waist Minimizer's" and "Bust Enhancers".

We hit the change rooms and minutes later, she emerges with the perfect suit - a black tankini halter.

I, on the other hand, am struggling and in a moment of misguided inspiration, ask her to hand over the tankini.

She hesitates. Extracting a promise from me to never wear it anywhere we might be seen together, she gives me the bathing suit.

I'm hopeful. It looked good on her so it should look good on me and if it does, we'll buy two.

We go home with one bathing suit.

Saturday: I set out on my own to a big downtown department store. There must be over 1,000 bathing suits on the floor and I'm hopeful one will work.

Steeling myself for the search, I try to remember the tips I've garnered from years of reading fashion magazines. Categories like:"Peanuts" - big breasts, small waist, big hips; "Egg Plants" - narrow shoulders, small breasts, big hips; and "Green Onions" - tall, thin, small breasts, small hips, waist and butt - come to mind.

Deciding to focus on suits for the freakish cross between an Egg Plant and a Peanut, I begin the hunt. Grabbing anything and everything that might be suitable, I head for the fitting room.

Bathing Suit Number One - The Boa Constrictor - Promising to make me look 1" smaller in the waist and hips, nowhere does it state where that 1" will relocate. Rooting for my chest, I'm disappointed when the 1" is pushed inward, severely limiting several body functions including breathing and moving.

Bathing Suit Number Six - Colour Story - Pretty patterned number in brilliant colours, very au courrant. A glimpse in the three way mirror however reveals a rear end that could too easily be mistaken for the children's beach ball.

Bathing Suit Number Nine - Bling, bling, bling! A perfect suit if ever I plan to audition for a part in the chorus line of a Vegas show. For floating on a pool noodle at the end of the dock, not so much.

(Hmmm . . . Perhaps I'm asking too much. Maybe women aren't actually meant to swim in their bathing suits.)

Bathing Suit Number 14 - The Bust Enhancer - A simple, one-piece black number with lots of extra padding in the cup. So much padding, in fact, that the top half stands stiffly on its own, extending several inches in front of my own chest. Can see how this would be extremely useful if I ever intend to carry my lunch, the phone book or a small child down the front of my bathing suit.

Bathing Suit Number 16 - Bling on Boobs. Also part of the "Bust Enhancer" line, the bosom of this otherwise plain suit is covered in sequins, beads and assorted shiny objects. The intended effect is to make a diminutive bust appear larger but the actual result is something akin to armour. Excellent choice should I ever need to take a bullet at the beach.

Reaching the end of my pile, I leave the changing room discouraged. Once again I've failed in my search. I'm about to get on the escalator and leave the floor when suddenly, the perfect thing catches my eye. I'm in love! And low and behold, a perfect fit.

When I get home my husband asks what I bought.

"New shoes!"

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Sweet Surrender?

I'm thinking of letting myself go. It's because of the tube-top thing.

I don't actually own a tube-top mind you. (Truth be told, I have a fear of tube-tops. Given my diminutive -a.k.a. flat chested - frame, I'm convinced they'll just slide to the floor.)

But I do own a white t-shirt infused with a little Lycra and I was wearing it the other day when my daughter came home from school. At first she just stared. Then the eye-rolling began and finally she asked, "Mom, why are you wearing a tube-top?"

I didn't know what she was talking about but when I glanced at my attire, I noticed the t-shirt had rolled itself up over my belly and was resting just below my bosom. It was aided and abetted in its journey by my softening stomach and disappearing waist.

I'm not sure how much of the day I had spent running around like that but it probably explained why I'd gotten such a funny look from the school crossing guard when I picked the kids up at lunch.

Now this wouldn't have been such a big deal if it weren't the third stomach incident in less than a year. Last summer while doing leg lifts at the gym, I noticed my stomach kind of slid to the floor whenever I rolled on my side.

And while driving around town in the fall, I happened to glance down and saw something smiling up at me. On closer inspection I realized my tummy was spilling over the waist band of my pants, contorting my belly button into a happy Buddha smiley face.

With the first two incidents, I simply took action: do more sit ups, stop buying low-cut jeans.

But when the tube-top thing happened, something inside of me just said, "Enough!" I realized no matter how many workouts and wardrobe changes I did, there was no way I was going to stop what getting older brings.

And that's when I thought of letting go.

I'm slowly figuring out that letting go isn't about looking like Roseanne Barr on a bad day. It's more about embracing a new normal, finding that sweet spot between Botoxed Barbie Doll and Crazy Cat Lady.

I'm still figuring it out but I definitely know it's a place where tube-tops don't belong.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - The Other Woman

There's another woman in my husband's life.

Her name? I know her only by her initials - GPS.

I suppose the wife is the last to know but I can't help but thinking I should have seen this coming.

The way he'd shake his head and roll his eyes whenever I'd get a direction wrong ("Oops, did I say 'Left'?") should have been a clue. I thought he found it sweetly endearing when I suggested we forget pulling out a map and instead, ask a passerby for directions. Now I'm not so sure. I can't help but ask myself, "How could I have been so blind as to not have noticed the way he admired all of his friend's trophy GPS's?" They seemed like cheap dashboard-candy to me but obviously he saw something more.

And who can blame him really? She's a tall, cool glass of water that one with her sleek, modern styling and impressive talents. Not only does she speak over 20 different languages (she's taught the children how to say, "Turn right" in Mandarin), she comes with a portable base that allows her to be manipulated into countless positions for my husband's viewing comfort. I mean, come on! How can a middle-aged woman compete with that?

When at one time he might have reached for my hand or patted my knee while out on a Sunday drive, now he can't keep his hands off of her. Push this button and ooh, she's recalculating the distance to Home Depot. (Show off!) Push another button and oh my, she's listing all the restaurants in a three mile radius. (Though I've noticed it's typically McDonald's and Pizza Hut she favours. Trailer-park trash!)

I hate the way she absorbs so much of his attention when we're in the car. We used to enjoy conversation and quips, but now he hangs on her every word. If I had known twenty years ago that "Turn right in 200 metres" got his attention more than "Honey, the kids are asleep and I've got ten minutes before the sheets have to be pulled from the dryer", don't you think I would have said it?

I try to turn a blind eye. What choice do I have? Though I have to tell you - she and I had a little run in recently. I let her know what I thought of her in no uncertain terms.

It happened when my car was in for service and I had to take my husbands to run to the grocery store. On the way home, right out of the blue, she spat out her standard line: "Turn right in 200 metres."

Well, if she thought I was going to listen to her, she had another thing coming. I drove right past our house. She was a little put-out but quickly recovered. "Recalculating."

Just as I was driving past the neighbour's garage, she tried again. "Turn left."

"Shut up bitch!" I screamed. Things got pretty ugly from there. The details are murky now but they tell me I drove around the neighbourhood for an hour or more before finally running out of gas.

I'm not sure how this sad turn of events will play out but I'll tell you right now, I'm ready to fight back. Maybe get me a little boy-toy of my own.

In fact, I was in Future Shop the other day and happened to notice the sales associate unpacking a new line of GPS systems - Land/Air Resource System, or LARS, for short. Hmm. . . I like the sound of that. I've always been partial to Scandinavian men.

The Best Kept Secret Blog - Dear Oprah, How Much Good Can A Do-Gooder Do If A Do-Gooder Could Do Good?

Dear Oprah

How are you? I am fine. Well, all except for that little mishap at the grocery store yesterday. I suppose I shouldn't have had the second cup of coffee before I left to buy milk but who knew something as innocent as a little sneeze could cause that to happen! You would have known how to handle it - or should I say, hold it - Oprah.

And that brings me to why I'm writing you today. I've got a question and seeing how you always know how to handle things, who better to turn to for advice.

My question is about charity Oprah. Now don't be modest - it's no secret that you just give and give and give. Gosh, it's a wonder how there's anything left over for you. But unlike you, your Oprahness, our family is of more modest means.

Why when they raised the price of my Botox treatments I just didn't know what I was going to do! I'm considering asking them to give me a double-dose so I can come less often and at least save on labour costs. I should probably book that appointment for sometime around Halloween.

Anyhow, I'm having a little trouble knowing just where to direct the money I've set aside for giving when there are so very, very many charitable causes out there.

Why I learned about a new one just this morning when I was out on a stroll with the dog. There I was right in the middle of a stoop and scoop when I glanced up and saw the sign on my neighbour's lawn.

"Clutter For Cancer"

I assumed it was some sort of fund raiser with proceeds going towards cancer research but I couldn't quite figure out where the clutter part came in.

Were they asking me to collect my clutter and come to some sort of collective yard sale where I'd sell my stuff alongside fellow Clutter For Cancer volunteers? Would we all go home feeling virtuous albeit the proud owners of each others stuff? I suppose I could store it and re-sell it at next year's Clutter For Cancer event.

And tthen there was that time I was waiting in line at the drugstore to buy toothpaste. The line just didn't seem to be moving at all and when I finally got to the front I realized the reason things were going so slowly was because the girl kept asking everyone if they wanted to add a dollar to their purchase. It entitled them to a piece of paper cut out in the shape of a shoe.

The dollar went to support people with some disease I had never heard of. To sweeten the deal, we were invited to write our names on the shoe and stick it on the front window of the store.

Well, what choice did I have? The window was covered in shoes and I didn't want to look like the only one who didn't care about this terrible disease. I forked over the buck and wrote out my name.

But when I got home I began to wonder if maybe some clever marketing types had made it all up. Maybe it was a plot to keep us in line longer so we'd buy those ridiculously expensive impulse items they keep near the cash - you know, things like gum and lottery tickets and Oprah magazines.
You get the idea Oprah - we're asked at every turn to donate and frankly, I find it overwhelming. It doesn't help when they make it so complicated to give.

When my daughter was a Girl Guide every September they'd give us boxes and boxes of cookies to sell and I'd keep asking Wrinkly Owl or Bitchy Bear or whatever the heck my daughter's leader called herself, "Why don't you just keep the cookies and I write you a cheque?"

And every year the answer was the same, "No. You and your daughter must sell the cookies then bring the money to us."

And I would finally give up and drag a wagon load of cookies home, throw them in the freezer and write a cheque for the whole darn amount.

If only we had one person who could be in charge of it all and in her benevolence, decide where the money should go. Someone Oprah, like you.

You've already got tons and tons of experience at giving things away. Why, when you gave all those girls cell phones, I said to myself, "Now here's a woman who really knows how to spend money."

You don't have to answer yet, just give it some thought. And while you're mulling things over, in the spirit of giving, I've included a box of cookies for you to enjoy.